If This Were Fiction

An answer to the question- What happened after the events of the classic "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"?

     …Well.

    Gabriel John Utterson lets out a sigh as he moves to the fireplace, forgoing his usual chair and sitting directly on the ground near the blaze. The flames are slowly dwindling, each crackle of wood becoming quieter as he stares into the orange and yellow glow.

    He isn’t sure what to do now. He barely registers the hint of anger blinking in his chest, the memory of splintering wood and fearful cries all but a murmur in his mind. Utterson knows he should do something, contact a policeman to explain the situation or some of Jekyll’s colleagues to give them the news. But still, he simply sits there, legs crossed and arms wrapped around himself like a child, breathing quietly in the fading light.

    “Henry, you damned fool,” he murmurs, thinking back to every day in the past, every day that had led up to this one. The doctor’s increasing absence from the public eye, his dismissal of Utterson at every corner-- and most importantly, that will, leaving everything he had to the version of himself he’d unleashed upon London without even a notion of the consequences.

    If this were a novel, he thinks, and he were one of the strapping young heroes of fiction, he’d be wishing he’d have seen it coming, piecing together the clues and wondering how he didn’t see it before. He’d be learning a lesson, wrapping up his story, leaving a final sentence on pages meant to be devoured and then forgotten. 

    Lord, how he wishes this were fiction. His hand comes up to adjust his glasses upon his face, and he finds himself disappointed at how clean they are. Not a speck save for his own fingerprints, not a single broken lens, no scratches or cracks in the perfect frames. He’s…

    He’s fine.

    He should be bloody, broken and filthy, the remnants of this terrible night covering him in the grime of murder and conspiracy, but he’s fine. His clothes are pristine, if not a tad wrinkled, his skin is unmarred and unharmed. There’s no evidence of the death he’s witnessed, the mess he’d left behind him in a trail of blood and spilled ink.

    The fire is dying now. Utterson is snapped out of his thoughts by a glint of light on the floor beneath him-- it is no longer the dead of night, and the shadows are slowly giving way to dawn. He’s almost surprised by how quickly the time has passed. He’s never been one to let his mind wander for so long.

    He slowly gets up from the floor, his joints crying out in protest and a soft yawn escaping him. He is nothing short of exhausted, he realizes, and despite the hour of the morning it feels as if he has just returned home from a long day at work. A gentle crinkle sounds as he adjusts his jacket, and he remembers with a start that he’s still in possession of Henry Jekyll’s final letter.

    Removing the paper from his pocket, he takes one final look at the smudged ink. He doesn’t reread it-- he’s had enough of those words to last him the rest of his life. His fist curls around it as he straightens, crumpling in one swift motion.

    Oh, perhaps it’s foolish; to rid himself of such important evidence, of his dear friend’s last words to him. However, he finds himself too tired and numb to care. He drops the ball of paper into the wastebasket by his desk, and feels a stab of pain as he hears it settle amongst the other garbage he’s read and then thrown away.

    He needs to sleep. Perhaps, after he rests, he will have the energy to make sense of this. He gingerly walks up the stairs to his bedroom, bidding the silence a gentle good-day.

    Utterson doesn’t bother to undress, simply dropping his jacket on the floor and pulling the blanket over himself as he lies down. He does not blow out the candle as he settles into bed-- he can’t stand to extinguish another fire tonight, no matter how small.

    Lord help him; it’s so unlike him. He needs to rest, he promises himself. One rest and he’ll be back to normal, cleaning up the mess of ash and chemical that his dearest has left behind.

    Slowly, he falls into a fitful sleep. If this were fiction, he would be riddled with nightmares, memories of the ghoulish night behind him tracking him down even in unconsciousness. Once more, however, he is forced to remain within the deeply unpoetic bounds of reality, and he doesn’t remember a single dream he has.

    He’ll wake up, he knows. He’ll wake up, and pour far too much gin into far too big a glass, and set to work on uncovering the complicated case of Henry Jekyll’s last moments. Perhaps he’ll even take an early walk with Enfield, out of schedule but sorely needed, and explain to him in vague detail the truth.  

    Once more. If this were fiction, he would end the story here, leaving the world to wonder what comes after. Leaving them to speculate how he’s dealt with the aftermath, what happens when the curtains close and the Muses go back to sleep.

    But it is real, however he may beg for it not to be-- and now, he has so much work to do.

Author's Note

This is my first story on this website, copied from another, so please forgive any formatting and/or viewing errors. Please keep all reviews constructive! :)

Edit-- fixed the issue with the black background!

Reviews

[superstar .]

this is SOOOOOO good??!!! I love the imagery with the fireplace, and that little detail about utterson adjusting his glasses? chef's kiss!!!

[pb]

Aaaaa thank you so much, I really appreciate it!!!

[superstar .]

ofc! it's so good omg omg and I love itt